


The Miracle on Baker Street

by Teumessian



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Post Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-18
Updated: 2012-04-18
Packaged: 2017-11-03 20:38:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 15,955
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/385693
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Teumessian/pseuds/Teumessian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Despite the fact that John is broken, the world continues to turn after the Fall of Sherlock Holmes, but months after that day John begins to see a familiar shape in the corners of his eyes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

                About three months, that’s how long it had been since the Fall. He found calling it by that name was much more appropriate than anything else, as it wasn’t just one person who fell that day. A whole society fell; an idea, a hope, a man, many men, John—Sherlock, _Sherlock fell._ Indeed, calling the event the Fall made much more sense in his mind and more than anything—It allowed him to avoid one word: Dead. Because that’s what Sherlock really was; he was dead. John knew that now.

                It had taken around three months for John to be able to say that aloud—except for once in therapy, and he could hardly ignore it at the gravesite. John wasn’t actually completely certain of the amount of time that had passed since that day. At the beginning everything was a blur. He went to stay with Harry. Any pride or disapproval in accepting her offer was infinitesimal in comparison to John’s complete and total inability to return to 221B Baker Street. Someone had brought him a bag of essentials in the first day—he couldn’t remember who. Maybe it was Mrs. Hudson or Harry. Or perhaps even Lestrade; he had come to see John fairly regularly in the past months. John thought he felt guilty. He didn’t know whether it was for turning against Sherlock before his death or for the fact that he still couldn’t help but believe somewhere deep down that Sherlock was a fraud. Maybe it was both.

 John honestly didn’t care. All he had was the truth and as long as Lestrade didn’t try and take it from him he didn’t mind the company. They never talked about Sherlock, but instead most often Lestrade’s family, or the mundane and ridiculous cases that came through the department. It was Scotland Yard so by most standards the cases were intense, but after the insanity John had seen…

                Then a few days later boxes of his things arrived at Harry’s. It was most of his stuff, everything he used regularly, but not everything he knew he’d owned. This made him suspect Mycroft but couldn’t be bothered to investigate. Again he was just happy to stay as far away from 221B and its haunted, empty rooms as he could.

At the beginning John just sat and sipped tea when people came to see him, for others came, too. The same guilty smiles on their faces, like a parent who accidently let their slip to their six year old that Santa wasn’t real—and then knew that he’d seen Santa jump of a building and slam into the pavement and saw the blood seep out and out and—no, he had to stop thinking about it.

                Over time though John began to open up again, returning to his polite and more social self—almost. His limp was back. He thought it would have come back immediately if at all, but it didn’t. It came back the morning after he finally brought himself to visit the graveyard, where the dirt was still freshly turned from when Sherlock had been buried in a closet casket ceremony. For that John was glad. It was so much easier to pretend he was somewhere else when he couldn’t see that face, eyes closed—like he was sleeping. But that didn’t make sense, because Sherlock so rarely slept. It was wrong.

                That day, on that visit to the gravesite in a last attempt at denial, John begged Sherlock for a miracle. He begged Sherlock to not be dead. Like a three year old who lost a parent. Please just stop being dead—just stop it.  But he hadn’t stopped. Sherlock Holmes continued to be dead.

                The next morning when John had stepped out of bed, he stumbled and fell even further. By the next morning his old cane arrived at Harry’s. John guessed Mycroft again. He wanted to be furious that Mycroft was still watching him, as painful a reminder as it was, but then perhaps Mycroft himself was at a loss of what to do with his surveillance now. What was he supposed to watch?

                The cane itself did infuriate him, though. It was like he’d never even met that man. Even his body was erasing Sherlock from his life. He broke the cane. Snapped it in half and flung it violently at the wall. He stood there breathing hard; defiant for just a moment, but then he collapsed back, broken on the bed. Harry had come to see what was wrong. He didn’t say a word to her. He didn’t look at her. Harry wasn’t good at feelings, so when she saw the tears sliding silently from the corners of John’s eyes back into his hairline she turned and walked awkwardly back down the stairs. The next evening there was a shiny new cane on John’s bed. John didn’t break this one.

                Days passed around John. Sometimes they moved forward with him, making him a little fraction of a hair better each day but sometimes it just flowed around him. He worked at the clinic. He no longer fell asleep while on shift, even though he was often tired. The nightmares frequently woke him, but he didn’t stay up all night breaking ciphers or shooting mad cabbies—who weren’t very nice—not anymore. John hated it, somewhere deep under the growing numbness.

                Then suddenly it was three months since the Fall and the world hadn’t ended, which John thought was hardly fair. Society had condemned Sherlock Holmes for months and got away without any repercussions. Maybe there were more unsolved crimes but nobody noticed. With Moriarty gone the state was safe, and that’s all people paid attention to. And that man was dead because of Sherlock Holmes—ungrateful bastards.

                But John only felt angry like this in the worst of times. Honestly, John didn’t have the energy to get angry. He just focused on going forward until maybe he could visit Mrs. Hudson without breaking down into a crippling episode. He hadn’t even made it into the flat when he tried to visit a month ago. They had to have tea at a shop down the street. But he was better, now. Soon, he told himself. He would make it soon—that’s what he thought, before the insanity began to set in at least.

                It was when he was on his way to a pub near New Scotland Yard to have a pint with Lestrade that he saw it the first time. A tall man standing in the moving crowd across the street. The street was busy. It was Friday night. Everyone was on their way _somewhere_ , and usually somewhere fast. But in his periphery a man stood at least a head above most of the men and women bustling around him. Just… standing there. It took one second, then two, and then John’s head snapped around, stumbling a little in stopping on his bum-leg, but nobody was there—well lots and lots of people were there but not the… No. Nope, he was not doing this. Not this too. He was just fine with his psychosomatic limp and night terrors, thank you very much.

                Lestrade greeted him warmly when John entered the pub, waving him over to an open spot next to him at the bar. Once, Lestrade probably would have asked why John was acting so guarded but it was barely noticeable in comparison to his normal mannerisms these days. He asked Lestrade about his daughters, and his wife. Lestrade asked about Harry and John chuckled before letting a few real complaints about Harry’s treatment of her new girlfriend fly, softened in the interest of cordiality of course. Harry’s old habits were beginning to seriously bother him again. Perhaps that was a good sign.

                “Thanks for coming out, John,” Lestrade said clasping his hand on John’s shoulder as they said their goodbyes.

                “No, Greg, thanks for calling,” John said, amiably. “It’s nice to get out.”

                By ‘nice’ John of course meant ‘distracting’ but the two were basically the same these days.  When John walked out on to the street it wasn’t as busy as before. He walked to the edge of the road and hailed a cab. He nodded in greeting to the cabbie and climbed into the backseat. As the cab pulled away from the curb he caught what he thought was a familiar silhouette slip into an alley. He twisted in his seat to look out the window and in his rush slammed his head into the glass.

                “Ouch!”

                “E’vrything alright, sir?” the cabbie asked, glancing over his shoulder.

                “It’s fine. Everything’s fine,” John mumbled, rubbing his temple.

                But nothing was fine anymore, not really.

                It took John two weeks to accept his insanity. What were light hallucinations on top of the PTSD, the psychosomatic limp, the insomnia and nightmares? What was the swish of a tailored overcoat, the shadow of a man? They didn’t help the nightmares but other than the new hallucinations he _was_ still getting better. He’d even had a row with Harry the other day about the—now—ex-girlfriend. He really needed to find a flat, but he couldn’t bring himself to move back into 221B because of the pain, and he couldn’t even begin to look for a new flat because he couldn’t let go.

                Then one day John ran into Mrs. Hudson on the street, and he was happy. He found a smile on his face that was not forced in the least.

                “Mrs. Hudson!” John greeted eagerly.

                She looked up from her shopping in surprise, smile blooming on her face when she recognized his face.

                “John!” She said as she moved out of the flow of traffic. “How are you doing, dear?”

                It was a silly question but John didn’t have too much trouble lying convincingly. It was easy and he almost believed it himself.

                “Getting along, and you?”

                “Oh you know…” she began prattling on about the new neighbors and all the mundane details of her fantastically boring life.

                She paused at the end of her ramblings and looked a little uncomfortable. She shifted her weight from one side to the other. John cocked his head in question.

                “John, dearest… do you think you could come back yet? I am so sorry to ask I just… he had so many things… I haven’t the slightest clue of where to start.”

                His heart sank. The good feeling was gone. John wanted to say no. He wanted her to not have asked at all, because it forced him to face how broken he was, but she did and John knew he couldn’t avoid it any longer. He’d once been a brave man. He couldn’t hide from that place forever. It wasn’t fair to Mrs. Hudson he told himself.

                This is how John Watson found himself in front of 221B Baker Street on a freezing winter day. The sky was silver and sharp. It would snow today, John was sure. Strange, for this early in the year. It was going to be a long winter. The clouds were looking heavier by the minute. Perhaps he should have come a different day… No, he was just making excuses.

                It didn’t look any different on the outside. It didn’t even feel any different. There was the same black door… same brass numbers. He knocked.

                Mrs. Hudson warmly answered the door and John gingerly stepped through the threshold, cane clicking on the floor. He paused there and looked around. This room wasn’t different either.

                “Thank you so much for coming, dear,” she said as she took his coat.

                John’s shoulders were stiff and hunched. He nodded stiffly in response. He was glad Mrs. Hudson had never been discouraged by silence and she began to prattle. It distracted from the fact that every fiber of John’s being wanted to flee far, far away from this place. They walked towards the stairs. Mrs. Hudson’s voice sounded so far away and the world moved to slow and too fast at the same time. John wondered if he could still turn and run.

                But then he was on the stairs, his steps echoing far louder than Mrs. Hudson’s chatter. She unlocked the door at the top of the stairs and it creaked as it opened. Had it done that before? Was he just imaging the ominous noise?

                Mrs. Hudson stepped aside when she reached the top of the stairs and waited for him. He stopped, too.  This place… this place wasn’t so different either… except for the fact that everything— _everything_ was wrong. It was dusty and the cold light cut beams through the dark air. It was utterly silent and freezing to boot. It was dead.

                Then Mrs. Hudson flipped the light switch and with a jolt, jarringly brought the room back to life. But it was like a mad scientist’s experiment. It was neither here nor there—living dead, the zombie house, because it was totally soulless. Sherlock Holmes was the life of this place and with him gone it was just an empty shell. It was a body without a soul. John decided it was worse in the light, somehow even colder.

                After a few seconds of paralyzed silence Mrs. Hudson spoke again.

                “Your limp is back, dearest?”she asked.

                John couldn’t tear his eyes away from the empty walls. He shrugged.

                “Thought it was psycho… psychotra…,” she said, stumbling over the word.

                “Psychosomatic,” John corrected absently.

                “Yes, that. Thought it was all in your head? Why did it come back… the psychosomatic thing?” she asked, without any poor intentions.

                But John laughed bitterly, eyes closing and head tilting back. The loud noise bounced garishly around the room.

                “Probably because I’m psycho again,” he said humorlessly.

                Offense and shock flashed across Mrs. Hudson’s face.

                “John, dear, don’t say such horrible things. You and I both know that’s not true.”

                Maybe she did but John certainly wasn’t sure, but as always he dutifully complied with Mrs. Hudson’s requests and apologized as he pushed himself to take an unsteady step into the flat.

                “Someone went through the kitchen and had it cleaned. I came home to it cleaned out a few weeks after…”

                Mycroft, John thought. He glanced toward the kitchen and saw all the beakers and equipment were still there, but devoid of chemicals or whatever else he had always put in there. John would bet the fridge and microwave were empty as well. That was good. Untouched, it would have been a complete biohazard by this point.

                John wandered forward, towards the mantle. The skull was still there. He looked at the spray paint smiley and bullet holes marking the wall. Most of his own things that he knew had accumulated in the main living area were gone, his laptop on the desk, the book that had been folded over the arm of his chair—collected by Mycroft’s people. John trailed away from the hearth and looked down at the coffee table. It was covered in a mix of papers and mug rings. The newspapers caught his eye. There were headlines proclaiming Sherlock’s brilliance, Sherlock in the damned ridiculous hat, Sherlock the hero splayed over the surface. Then over those, Sherlock: the Fraud. He knew what the headlines said later but they’d never bought such papers… for obvious reasons.

Suddenly John realized his hands were shaking and his throat was tight. His eyes were wide and glassy.

                Wrong. _Wrong. WRONG!_

                Mrs. Hudson’s voice barely reached him, but he heard. She saw that he was losing it.

                “So sorry, darling. I just remembered I promised Liza I’d pop down before four and pick up a few things from her,” Mrs. Hudson said, obviously making an excuse to give him space.

                He gave one sharp nod and he vaguely heard her feet on the stairs. The front door opened and shut again. John laid his cane against his chair, the one he always sat in. Sherlock, in all his dramatic gestures, usually took up the whole couch so John rarely sat there. He turned to look at the chair that was once his own. It wasn’t his now. Owning something meant it was something you used or had that others did not have. If there was no one else to have it… what was the point?

                No point. There was no point in anything. Why was he here? Why did he do this to himself? To help Mrs. Hudson? Maybe, but he could have just waited until Mycroft handled it. He hadn’t talked to the man once but John knew well enough that he would indeed have done it eventually. This was just masochism. What had he hoped to get from coming back here? There was nothing here anymore.

                It was more than his hands shaking now, wired and ready to run—flee. His wide eyes latched onto the floor where an indiscernible amount of wrappers and spent nicotine patches lay forgotten on the ground. There’d been a lot of problems and a lot of patches near the end, looking back. John had realized after the Fall that Sherlock had known what was coming much earlier than he gave him credit for. He’d deliberately hid it from John, but in hindsight he realized… That was where the insomnia came from. He lay awake at night and agonized over each little sign, each little trick and wondered how he could have stopped him. To this day John wasn’t sure who had lured him to the aid of Mrs. Hudson with that false shooting, Moriarty or Sherlock himself. He probably would never know.

                John toed one of the patches with his scuffed shoe and suddenly all the energy in his entire body left him, leaving him as drained as the nicotine from the patch. His knees buckled, and his backside collided with the sofa. Then John leaned forward and buried his face in his hands.

                “God… god damnit….”

His voice trembled pitifully.  John was unsure if he was going to cry or give up on feelings and let the numbness take him for good.

                Neither were destined to occur because suddenly an instinct rusty with disuse pricked at the back of his neck. The nerves had faded after the war and now again after the Fall, but they hadn’t deserted him completely. His heart sped up and he froze. Not that he’d been moving before, but now his shoulders were tense, coiling. There was no fear, there was rarely fear, just acute awareness.

                This all occurred in a millisecond and before John could decide the source of the instinct or an appropriate action a low voice broke the silence in the room.

                “John, that’s my spot.”

                The floor went out from under him. It was a punch in the gut that sent him sprawling as well as hook under his ribs that ripped him up and into the open sky. The voice of the devil and the song of the angels mixed in deadly union with the sole purpose of shattering John into tiny irreparable pieces.

                Just a second and John broke the bonds holding him in place. His head whipped towards the door and without meaning to he rose to his feet fluidly, and there, leaning nonchalantly against the doorframe was a man. He was a tall man, a man with high cheek bones and dark curling hair. His eyes were almond shaped and sometimes they were green and sometimes they were blue and sometimes they were the color of steel. Right now they were the color of a forest.

                John felt his eyes go wide and his mouth part in shock. There was a strange whooshing sound in his ears that made it feel like he was trying to hear through a wind tunnel. Sherlock’s were wide and pleased, glancing down towards John’s legs. They flashed up to meet John’s again and he smiled lightly.

                “John, your limp is gone!”

                John didn’t know how he could tell, as usual. Maybe it was the way he jumped off the couch. Perhaps it was the way he was standing. Honestly… John didn’t give a _flying fuck_ how Sherlock knew his limp was better before he’d taken a goddamned step. What Sherlock apparently didn’t notice as quickly was the emotions rushing through John’s body in a tangled, confused mass. Confusion—shock—elation—hope—desbelief—exhaustion—relief—anger—excitement—absolute and all consuming _fury._

                The pleasure in Sherlock’s face faltered and fell. He cocked his head to the side. Sherlock probably expected a multitude of reactions from John. Most of them probably positive. He probably had taken into account that John would be shocked by this development and was prepared for that. But nobody, not even John, could foresee what he would do in the next few seconds.

                “John, are you—” he began the question John had been asked over and over and over again since the Fall.

                _John, are you okay?_

_NO. HE WAS NOT BLOODY-FUCKING-GODDAMNED OKAY._

John didn’t give him a chance to finish the question.

                “YOU _BASTARD_!” John nearly screeched at him.

                Huh, turns out Sherlock was right. John’s limp _was_ gone again.

                John reached him before Sherlock could gather his wits about him. Then one of John’s hands gripped his shirt and yanked him fully into the flat. Then, with a resounding crack, John’s fist made contact with Sherlock’s perfect-sculpted-stupid face.

 


	2. Part 2

Already off balance from being pulled roughly into the living room, the punch easily knocked Sherlock the remaining distance to the cold, dusty floor. He stopped the majority of the damage by catching himself with his right arm but still ended up in an undignified heap on his arse. There was once a time when John would have paid very good money to see Sherlock make the utterly bewildered expression that was currently fixed on his face. Sherlock’s left hand was clutching his face where John had just hit him so hard he was sure to bruise visibly for days. He was so shocked, though, that John doubted he even felt the pain yet.

                Sherlock’s mouth opened once, closed and then opened again.

                “J-John, what the—?”

                But John was _not_ finished yet.

                “NO.”

                John grabbed that bloody coat of his and wrenched Sherlock up off the floor. Both of them had forgotten just how strong John was when provoked; he was small but very powerful.

                “You bloody _bastard!_ ” John screamed in his face again.

                Sherlock’s back slammed into the wall as John’s anger rushed over him like the first waves of a flood, for suddenly Sherlock realized this was a gate that could not be closed until the torrent had run its course.

                “How dare you!? What the _fuck_ are you doing here? YOU. ARE. DEAD. SHERLOCK. It’s been months! You died! You jumped off a bloody building in front of my goddamned eyes… SHERLOCK, I WATCHED YOU DIE! And you have the nerve to come back after all this time!? YOU DIED! And if you didn’t die how dare you not tell me…?”

                The flood trickled for a moment and only a strange deadness took its place. John knew the hollowness in his gut was more than visible for the world to see. Sherlock took that as a cue that it was his turn to talk.

                “John, I—”

                Nope, flood was back. Hands fisted in his jacket and pulled him forward an inch before slamming him violently back against the wall again, forcing the breath from his lungs before they could form words. Ignored tears were sliding down John’s face from the corners of his eyes in painful unbroken steams.

                “SHERLOCK, HOW CAN YOU NOT BE DEAD? Do you know why you have to be dead? Why I know!?” John’s voice was rising and falling chaotically. “Cause I _see_ it, Sherlock!”

                He took a step away, releasing Sherlock, who slid a few inches down the wall without John holding him up. John closed his eyes, head falling back.

                “Everyday, Sherlock… every day…”

                John snapped back into the present and began pacing and Sherlock didn’t dare move a muscle or open his mouth again.

                “I screamed but you were already gone… how could you do that? You told me you were a fraud… which is just a pathetic lie. Why would you say that to me? Of all the people on this blasted planet, you had to know I’d lose it completely before I’d believe that... So why, Sherlock?”

                His wild, leaking eyes caught Sherlock’s again in their penetrating gaze.

                “Then you jumped. You fucking jumped, Sherlock.”

                Then he was off again, eyes crackling with rage.

                “The blood, Sherlock, my hands were drenched with it. They were covered with YOUR blood, Sherlock! And all the time I see it there... I went back to therapy, Sherlock. Did you know?”

                John cocked his head questioningly at his dead best friend. Something in Sherlock’s eyes said he very much did know and the flood was in full force again.

                “I can’t sleep, Sherlock! I only just started to be able to even say your _name_ again! My therapist says I’m ‘severely traumatized’ all over again. Limp came back. And whenever I _can_ sleep the nightmares take me. I think I’m going crazy, Sherlock. I honestly think so,” John said as a matter of fact, for some reason knowing Sherlock already knew most of these things.

                Finally finding his voice Sherlock spoke.

                “John, I’m sorry…” he said from where he was half leaning, half sliding down the wall, still frozen where John had thrown him.

                It wasn’t much but that did it. The waters receded. John went limp, looking completely defeated.

                “I begged, Sherlock… I asked you one thing. I just wanted you to stop this… to stop being dead, Sherlock but you couldn’t could you? You couldn’t just come back to me…”

                John stumbled backward in a way that had nothing to do with a psychosomatic limp. When his legs it the back of the couch he slid down to the floor, knees up against his chest and face again buried in his hands.

                “I’ve finally snapped…” John mumbled. “I thought… I thought it was getting better… but I’m a complete nutter now…”

                Now Sherlock was confused again. He pushed away from the wall and cautiously approached the curled man.

                “John, why do you think you’re crazy?” Sherlock asked in his genuinely curious way that made John want to die because he just couldn’t be hearing it; it wasn’t possible.

                John looked up at him and smiled at him in that tight way he did when Sherlock was being particularly stubborn, irritating or not following appropriate social customs and he’d just had enough.

                “Because you, Sherlock Holmes, are not real. I have finally gone off the deep end. Thought I was seeing you for weeks really, but I guess I just assumed it was wish fulfillment. People on the street looking like you. Mistakes. But this…” he said, looking Sherlock up and down once. “Is just ridiculous.”

                Sherlock folded himself down until he crouched closer to John’s eye level.

                “But I’m not a hallucination, John. That’s preposterous.”

                The simple way his said it tempted John to hit him again but he refrained on the basis that it was pointless to hit a delusion.

                “Yes, Sherlock, you might be right about the preposterousness but you’re dead so…”

                John said, matching and mocking his simplicity.

                Sherlock huffed out a breath, impatiently and awkwardly scooting forward until he was sitting right in front of John. John deftly ignored the way his heart stuttered at the proximity.

                “It appears I did my job too well… well that was the goal. You see all my efforts would have been wasted if you or anyone found out. But John you haven’t been hallucinating. It was me you’ve been seeing… I just, wasn’t quite finished yet.”

                John gave him that fixed, irritated smile again.

                “Sherlock, you are making _no_ sense to me or probably anyone and that is hardly convincing me that you are real, and that if you are that I shouldn’t kill you myself.”

                Sherlock looked frustrated. This was not how he wanted this to go at all. So with serious eyes and a determined set to his mouth, Sherlock grabbed John’s face firmly between his hands so he had no other choice than to lock eyes with the dead-man. Okay, now John couldn’t ignore the swoop in his stomach that was triggered by the thin fingers pressed against his temples.

                “John, I need you to listen to me, and listen close. You said you knew I never lied to you so please, for the love of all that is good in this world; I need you to trust me now. I had to die that day. Moriarty made sure I had only one option and I saw little to no chance of creating another in the heat of the moment. So I planned ahead. It took all of my resources to make sure I died to the world that day, and I succeeded. But I fixed it, John. I don’t have to be dead anymore. So I need you to look me in the eyes, and feel me here,” he said, palms warming against John’s jaw and thumbs resting on his cheeks, “and I need to you to believe I’ve come back. I did not die. I am here. John, you asked for a miracle so why won’t you accept it?”

                John’s heart was thudding painfully in his chest. He couldn’t move. He couldn’t breathe. All he could do was stare into Sherlock’s wide and disturbingly honest eyes. It was like Sherlock had never wanted him, or anyone, to believe something so badly in his entire life, and John could see it there in his gaping pupils and flushed cheeks. Even his imagination wasn’t this good.

 _Once you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth._ Sherlock’s own words rang in his head, reverberating through his bones. John swore he heard a crack and then a shower of tinkling chimes like the finest china shattering on the ground. The last of his fragile defenses he supposed.

“You really did it didn’t you, you crazy, impossible man? You’re alive.”

Sherlock was half way into a reassuring smile before his hands were grabbed and he was shoved roughly again. How many times could one fall on their arse in a day? Then John was towering above him again, eyebrows knit angrily, electricity sparking wrath in his eyes again, because Sherlock wasn’t allowed to just do this to him.

“If you didn’t die the where the fuck have you been, Sherlock!? You—you’ve known! All this time, you bloody knew what I was going through! Don’t think I can’t see it in your eyes!”

Sherlock’s cheek had finally begun to ache and the shock was wearing off. He cast his eyes downward and carefully picked himself up off the ground.

“John—”

“How could you DO that to me, Sherlock!?”

That old arrogance was settling on Sherlock’s shoulders as he straightened up to his full height and it made John want to spit.

“You let me believe you were dead,” John’s voice cracked on the last word. “Couldn’t you have done something!? Sent me a message? Did you want to? Did you care at all, Sherlock!?”

Where John’s anger came as a flood, Sherlock’s came as fire. It sprung up on his face and for a moment John believed in avenging angels.

“Did I care,” Sherlock ground out, somehow not a question at all.

John’s hands clenched and unclenched as the agonizing slideshow of his life in the past three and a half months ran on fast forward through his brain. 

“How could y—how could… you do that to me?” John said, cadence stumbling in the way it did only when he was impossibly upset.

“I—”

“DID YOU EVEN CARE, SHERLOCK!?” John screamed, screwing his burning eyes shut.

“OF COURSE I CARED!” Sherlock bellowed, finally snapping under the abuse.

John’s eyes snapped open in surprise and faltered for a second but then rose to meet him.

“Then why the hell did you let me suffer like that!? How could you make me think you were dead!? For months, Sherlock, months!”

John thought he might have a hole burned into his forehead at the intensity of the glare Sherlock was shooting at him at point blank range. With a frustrated flourish of his hands he fired again.

“You think I wanted to do that!? To give up, beaten and shamed!? Do you think it didn’t _kill_ me watching you slowly waste away? Yes, John, I knew what you were going through! It—it _haunted_ me. I tried to help… anything I could, which wasn’t much but I _tried_ John! But you had to think I was dead! Everyone had to! Why don’t you see? Why are you so blind!?”

John was shaking with anger again. He was not going to be insulted like this.

“Sorry, I’m so _blind_ , Sherlock but I don’t see why the fuck—”

Then Sherlock snapped completely.

“JOHN, HE WOULD HAVE KILLED YOU!”

Well, that stopped John in his tracks.

                “What…?”

                They both paused. The swirling anger and fury that had been blowing around them stuttered. They both were breathing heavily, defenses still up but they were about to fall.

                “Moriarty, John, Moriarty! You don’t think I’d seriously kill myself, or fake my death, to avoid the shame of defeat, did you? I told you. I don’t care what people think of me—most people,” he corrected, eyes flashing to John, who awkwardly looked away. “He did defeat me that day, John. I may have won now but on that day he beat me. I guess Moriarty left me two options… but you’re a better man than me so you’ll understand that I really didn’t have a choice in the matter at all.”

                There he went with the only-choice talk again and finally John was derailed enough give him a chance.

                “Fine… explain,” John relented.

                Sherlock nodded and walked around the sofa to sit. John hesitantly followed suit. Sherlock patted the couch beside him where he sat, like a father encouraging his son to sit before he told a serious story. After a second’s pause John sat on the couch, half sideways so he could watch Sherlock like a hawk.

                “So…” John prompted.

                Sherlock stared out the window where puffy white blobs where floating down through the air but his eyes said he was seeing something much different.

                “Moriarty and I met on the top of that building for a reason. From the very beginning it was what he wanted… for me to jump, to take my own life in shame. His final insult after ruining my entire reputation was making sure I could never repair it and that I would be forever remembered as a fraud.”

                John shifted uncomfortably in his seat. Moriarty’s devil smile in his mind’s eye caused his stomach to roll. Sherlock absently studied his hands as he continued.

                “How to get me to jump though? Because killing me and making it look like a suicide would never have been good enough for him. He had to make me do it myself…”

                Finally he focused on something in the room and looked over towards John.

                “He thought it through… he would give me a choice. I would jump… plummeting to my graphic, disgraceful death… or he would have Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson and… you, John, shot and killed. And oh he made sure there was no way out of that. You know that’s why he killed himself?” Sherlock asked, quirking his eyebrows at John.

                In fact John had no idea why Moriarty had apparently committed suicide as well, but in the aftermath of the other man who died that day John had completely ceased to care how or why Moriarty had done anything. There had never been a point to. Knowing wouldn’t have brought Sherlock back.

                “It was because his mind was the only thing that could allow both your safety and my survival. Locked up in his head was a code to call off the dogs. And the risk of me forcing that code out of him and possibly defeating him wasn’t worth his own life. Moriarty killed himself out of spite… for the game and nothing more…”

                John was reeling. He was unable to cope with the concepts Sherlock was outlining. Maybe it made sense to the gods of intellect but John was mortal and he didn’t understand the games of gods. Sherlock drummed his fingers on his knee, noticed he was doing so and with a shudder stilled his hand.

                “Okay…” John said, letting it sink in, unsure as ever. “So you faked your death when you knew you couldn’t survive without Moriarty killing us—me… from the grave…”

                The rushing noise was there again but softer. He half registered Sherlock nodding.

                “Once I was ‘dead’… I hunted them,” Sherlock stated, a deadly edge creeping into his voice, making John shudder. “I couldn’t come back until they were made to disappear.”

                John wasn’t sure what exactly Sherlock meant by ‘disappear’ but he elected not to ask.

                “I had to burn Moriarty’s web and get the evidence I needed to prove my innocence and validity and to prove who Moriarty really was,” Sherlock continued and then that short self-satisfied smile John realized he’d nearly forgotten settled on his face. “I did it, John. They’re all gone and I have more than enough proof to leave the most skeptical man on Earth no choice but to accept the fact that I am not a fraud and Moriarty was real. Mycroft is presenting it to Scotland Yard at this very moment.”

                He was beaming now, all black curls, blue eyes and pleased flush. John’s heart stuttered as he realized what Sherlock was really so happy about.

                “You… you don’t have to hide anymore? You’re not disappearing again?”

                Then, for the second time, Sherlock gave John a wink and said a few words that would irrefutably change his life.

                “I’m back from the grave, John.”

                Making light of the situation should have thrown John back into his rage but he couldn’t find it anymore. He didn’t know how, or why, but the anger and hurt, the fear and loss were draining out of him like a child trying to hold water in their cupped hands—and who was he to fight it? He could punish Sherlock… he could say that the damage done was too much to get over. That he couldn’t live with Sherlock having seen the man he loved splattered out on the pavement.

                Yes. John was in love with Sherlock Holmes. He knew that day in Baskervilles, when he sat in mortal fear for his life with only Sherlock’s voice to save him from certain death. The sanctity of that moment had admittedly been compromised once he learned Sherlock had been the one to set it up in the first place, accounting for his particular annoyance with the man on and after that trip.

                Perhaps he knew earlier, somewhere in his convoluted and confused mind. Maybe he realized on one of those sleepless nights after Irene Adler, when her words would ring in his head. _I’m not actually gay,_ he’d said. _Well, I am. And look at us both?_ She’d said it like it didn’t really make a difference. For the months after she’d disappeared the ideas chased him around—ideas about _preferences_ and ideas about sexuality. After that John couldn’t help but start to look at Sherlock differently, with a new, for the most part unwilling, open mindedness. It’s not exactly like his feelings changed, more his view on them did, as well as a budding… appreciation for Sherlock’s cheekbones, his eyes… the way they crinkled when he smiled, especially when he smiled at John.

                Then there was the phone call, the way Sherlock was silhouetted against that blasted sky on that wretched day on that godforsaken building. Then there was the way he said goodbye and the way a part of John experienced a worse torture than the most devious military interrogators could even begin to imagine and then died. John then knew he had his answer. He could tell Irene Adler that she was right, if he knew she lived, because for something to die it had to be alive in the first place.

 It didn’t matter that he’d thought he’d been totally straight. Maybe he still was. Maybe he didn’t love men. But he certainly loved Sherlock Holmes, though it had been far too late.

                Yet, here he was. Sherlock Holmes sat in front of him, for the most part, well. Now that he was calm enough to really look at the person next to him as a man, and not a hallucination or a right bastard, he could see the dark circles were pronounced under his eyes. He looked thinner than John had ever seen him, but he was alive and without any life altering injuries that one usually expected to see in someone who made such severe contact with pavement.

                Sherlock’s own sacrifice was also impossible to forget, now that he knew. He hadn’t been alone in his suffering. So now what? Could he get over the festering wounds of the past months? His answer was easy enough to deduce. Three seconds in a room with Sherlock and his limp was gone again. That had to mean something.

                “So… what now?” John asked the question aloud, swallowing nervously.

                The way Sherlock was looking at him curiously now made John realize is thoughts may have been clearer on his face than he’d thought, now that his screaming fury wasn’t there to mask them. When he thought Sherlock was dead he didn’t really have to compartmentalize his feelings anymore. He was obviously out of practice.

                “Well, perhaps you’d allow me to break this cane?” Sherlock said wryly, picking it up from where it balanced against John’s chair.

                John couldn’t help it. He laughed and then realizing something cut off.

                “Wait, how did you know I broke my…”

                It was a stupid question really, even if this cane was truly identical to the last one. This was Sherlock they were talking about. John braced himself for the torrent of clipped deductions that would lead him to the conclusion that this was a new cane and that John had violently ended the last one. Then he would tell Sherlock he was brilliant, and Sherlock would smile.

                “Because I brought you your old one from here and then this one when you destroyed the first,” Sherlock said simply, twirling the cane in his hands.

                That was certainly not what he’d expected. Sherlock wouldn’t look at John, whose stomach dropped violently.

                “You… I assumed Mycroft…”

                Sherlock caught the cane, stopped its spinning and stared intently at its smooth handle.

                “I was in London, hunting one of the assassins. He was… tricky, and only accessible to me at night. I had too much free time and I couldn’t help myself. I… I followed you to the graveyard.”

                The admission fell like a stone but John couldn’t say a word. Sherlock turned his head and he paused to look John over in a way that made him feel like Sherlock could see far more than what was on the surface of his being, and there was something else… was there pain on Sherlock’s face? John knew Sherlock felt pain. He was one of the few who knew Sherlock wasn’t a complete automaton, but Sherlock very rarely felt agony strong enough that it showed through his carefully constructed walls that separated Sherlock from the view of those he called dull.

                “I… I really am sorry, John. You can’t know… just how difficult it was to see you like that and stay away. I had told you to lose all faith in me. I was so afraid that he would get to you if you weren’t convinced… but you weren’t convinced. No matter what I had said. You believed in me, John. Nobody has… ever… ever…”

                Sherlock trailed off for a moment, eyebrows furrowed, staring at the ground as if he were confused. What would he be so confused about? Sherlock glanced up and in meeting John’s earnest glance and smiled for some reason that was far beyond John’s understanding.

                “The next day I came to see you at Harry’s. I told myself I wanted to make sure Mycroft had gotten you all of the things you needed like I asked him. I watched you and saw you stumble. I got the cane while Mrs. Hudson was out at the shops. I waited to make sure you got it… but then you broke that one,” Sherlock said, eyebrows dipping even further, so troubled.

                “That day… was not good. I found another cane for you and left it. I knew you wouldn’t break this one,” he said. “I found the assassin that night and one less thing stood between me and the living world... but that day was still very bad.”

                Sherlock’s knuckles were bone white where he gripped the can and he looked more quietly frustrated than John could remember. What was bothering him so much?

                “Sherlock, what’s wrong?” John asked.

                He tilted his head and looked penetratingly at John in a way that made sure John couldn’t say anything else because his mouth was too dry.

                “I made the same mistake as she did,” he said.

                “What?” John asked, confused.

                Sherlock started twirling the cane again.

                “Feelings make you sentimental. Sentiment makes you make mistakes… I made a mistake, John. I couldn’t help it,” Sherlock said, shaking his head in disbelief of himself.

                Now John was getting frustrated. Why could this man never just get to the point?

                “Sherlock, what are you talking about?”

                “You said I never left any sign… I shouldn’t have. Something so stupid would have put you in grave danger… so then why?”

                John was about to snap at him for not making sense but stopped when he noticed Sherlock’s attention to the cane. He was very carefully turning it over in his hands until the underside of the handle was visible. He rubbed his thumb near the base of it and in the lighting John noticed something he would have never seen on his own. The cane was a tool and a reminder of weakness. Sherlock knew John would never spend any time dwelling on the object. But there in the metal, no bigger than numbers on a cell phone were two letters:

                **SH**

                John gasped. Sherlock chuckled almost bitterly but more in self deprecation than anything.

                “I hope the message is not lost on you after all I risked to give it to you,” he said, voice low and dark.

                No, the message was not lost at all. John was not particularly romantic or dramatic but he knew what Sherlock meant to say with this.

                **I will be your crutch.**

                John would have thought the message would hit him hard, and the revelation that was bound to come with it even harder, but they didn’t. Instead they settled over him like a heavy blanket that someone’s tucked over you when you’ve fallen asleep on the couch. It was like a warm phantom floated down and wrapped itself around his shoulders before seeping under his skin and all the way into his bones.

                What John had meant to do was open his mouth to tell Sherlock that he understood, and that he loved him, too, but that’s not what happened at all.

                What did happen was John’s body moving of its own accord. He moved forward and his hands came up to cup Sherlock’s face and then, almost roughly but not quite, pulled it down to meet his own. Their lips met and a light puff of surprised breath escaped through Sherlock’s nose. John’s heart fluttered and then pounded strongly against his ribcage as warmth bloomed from where they were joined. Surprise made Sherlock slow to respond for a second, but then he did. The tension left his frame and one hand came up to cup the nape of John’s neck and rumpled the short strands of hair there.

                Sherlock’s lips were warm and full. Their hands pulled each other even closer and held, both reveling in the pure _rightness._ They parted with a soft pop and for a second there was just hot breath against John’s parted lips before they leaned in and met once more. John didn’t know who initiated that kiss. Their lips parted once, and twice more before John forced himself to still and lean back enough to see the impossible man in front of him. Sherlock’s eyes were open and calmly surprised, but pleasantly so. They were incredibly bright and his cheeks were flushed. What John would give to be able to see inside his mind right now…

                Suddenly John felt his burning face and with an awkward smile he leaned back and gave a light cough.

                “Well that was…”

                “That was nice,” Sherlock finished, the grinning quietly.

                John giggled like he used to, clear as a bell, a sound that he hadn’t been heard in 221B in far too long. Sherlock’s eyes crinkled in almost laughter in that way that haunted John’s very few good dreams. John glanced out the window and saw that blankets of white were drifting down from the clouds.

                John sighed and took his mobile out of his pocket.

                “What are you doing?” Sherlock asked, in his intense ‘I need to know everything, always’ voice.

                “Sending a text to Harry,” John said, dismissing Sherlock because he knew it made him crazy to have to ask so many little questions to get the information he so obviously needed.

                “What for?” he asked, and loomed over John’s shoulder, trying to see the screen.

                John opened his messages and then a blank text.

                “Let her know I won’t be back tonight,” John explained.

                “Oh,” Sherlock said with a happy tilt to his voice.

                He craned his neck to view the message. John didn’t try stop him.

                **Staying at 221B. I got my miracle. –JW**


	3. Part 3

Harry texted John twelve times and called him five. Sherlock counted automatically, worried that somehow Harry would convince John to come back to her house. He could understand why she’d be worried. The last three and a half months had taken its toll on John. He was thinner his eyes were haunted. Even now Sherlock kept catching the sidelong glances John repeatedly shot at him, as if he was checking to make sure that Sherlock was still there. John didn’t trust him. Currently he was on a probationary trust period. He was giving Sherlock a chance to prove that he wasn’t dead. What a strange predicament. Still, John had yet to return any of Harry’s calls or texts, leading Sherlock to believe that he had a double motive. John was definitely punishing Harry for something, probably the usual somethings, but Sherlock didn’t care as long as John stayed.

                Sherlock didn’t like not having John trust him completely like before. He could tell John wanted to, and that perhaps soon he would, but right now Sherlock was the living dead and not to be held in faith. He would have to work on that. Sherlock found himself powerfully drawn to the idea of having John believe in him unconditionally again. It wasn’t something that he just wanted. It was something he _needed._

                Once John had realized he, and Sherlock, would be staying in the flat that night, both because of the weather and more importantly there wasn’t a cat’s chance in hell that John was letting Sherlock out of his line of sight for a very long time, he set about clearing all the dust and dirt that had accumulated in the near four months of the flat’s disuse. He puttered around the living room, clearing surfaces and wiping them over with a dusting cloth. He took all the newspapers on the table and threw them away without reading any of the headlines over again.

                Sherlock followed John with his eyes from where he was sprawled in his usual position on the couch. He felt an oddly foreign twist in his middle when John took his skull from the mantle without hesitation and wiped it all over with the dusting cloth and giving it a complete once over before returning it to its normal position. Sherlock couldn’t remember when his own habits and eccentricities had stopped eliciting comments or complaints from his flat mate. It wasn’t because it had been a gradual process, because it hadn’t been. It was because it was just so long ago; John hadn’t been bothered like anyone and everyone else from the start. John took everything in stride. John thought he was brilliant.

                Sherlock grinned like a smug and pleased tomcat, the resemblance only made more uncanny by his lounging position on the sofa.

                “What?” John asked as he dusted the rest of the mantle.

                He had noticed Sherlock’s smile. Sherlock wasn’t surprised, not with John being as oversensitive as he was at the moment.

                “Nothing,” Sherlock said, and John just shrugged.

                He went back to dusting and Sherlock continued to track him with his eyes.

                John was sweeping the floor when Sherlock heard the front door open and click shut. John’s head snapped up and he froze in front of the whited out windows. The look on his face clearly showed that John completely forgot to plan what to say to Mrs. Hudson about her not-dead tenant when she returned. Sherlock rolled his eyes. For being so different from most people John worried about such silly things sometimes.

                “John, dear? Are you still here? I’m sorry I took so long. The weather has taken a turn and it took a while to get back,” her voice floated up the stairs and a little spark of fondness flared in Sherlock.

                It was unexpected. Well, Moriarty wouldn’t have threatened to kill her for nothing.

                Mrs. Hudson’s footsteps were now an undertone to her words and John looked down at Sherlock, up at the open door and then back at Sherlock, totally lost for words.

                “I’m so sorry, sweetheart, but I think the roads are getting locked up,” she said, still climbing the stairs and John still at a loss.

                His mouth opened and then closed, soundless. Mrs. Hudson reached the top step but was looking down for something in her purse.

                “I just don’t know if they are safe enough to…”

                She finally looked up and saw John over the back of the couch. Sherlock couldn’t see her but he knew about the purse from the jangling and the look from her ceasing words.

                “Oh John, dear, you didn’t need to do that. I could handle the cleaning. I just need help sorting through the things, and we can get someone else to carry them since… well, your leg,” she explained.

                There was a second of silence then…

                “My leg is better now.”

                Sherlock couldn’t help but roll his eyes. He had to move this along. He rolled up and curved his head around to see over the back of the couch and in the driest of voices finally greeted Mrs. Hudson, tight smile on his face.

                “Oh, and sorting my things will no longer be necessary, Mrs. Hudson.”

                There was a scream and then a flutter as Mrs. Hudson swooned and slid along the doorframe to the floor. Sherlock just huffed, irritated, and collapsed back onto the couch.

                “Sherlock!” John chastised as he rushed around the couch to the aid of Mrs. Hudson.

                It took a good ten minutes to get Mrs. Hudson to calm down completely and a mug of tea more for John to explain how Sherlock returned. John had told Sherlock to let him handle it, sparing Mrs. Hudson his harsh impatience. When John explained why Sherlock did what he’d done Mrs. Hudson had looked at him with such affection it made Sherlock uncomfortable enough to roll away from them and face the back of the couch.

                “That is really something amazing, Sherlock. Always thought there was something wrong with what the papers were saying. I know you’re a good man,” she’d said, and patted him on his hunched shoulder.

                Sherlock just made a huffing noise and tried to ignore the warmth in his cheeks. What was wrong with him today? He’d felt so… soft since he’d entered the room with John and even more so since John had… well, kissed him. Sherlock’s brain was always thinking a hundred things a hundred times a second but under all the directionally flowing streams of thought there was a little pool that spun in a circle, and that was the memory of that kiss played on loop in the back of his head. From that pool many spindle streams flowed. They were fresh and clear, coming from a whole new realm that Sherlock hadn’t dared delve into before. They were thoughts about whys and significance, and even more on possibilities and hypotheticals similar to thoughts he hadn’t entertained since his years at University when his hormones were actually strong enough to combat his powerful mind. It was strange and distracting but after months of darkness and boredom, including the months before his ‘death’ when he felt the guillotine hanging over his head, Sherlock found himself intrigued by the strange hormonal thoughts and perhaps even more by the almost _fuzzy_ tightness in his chest that had been nagging at him every time he’d got the man in his sights over the last three weeks.

The warmth was new but the tightness was an old feeling from before Moriarty’s last game, a feeling that was forcibly dismissed when John was at work, or on a date, or out of town—at least when Sherlock realized he was gone. It had certainly gotten a lot worse after he disappeared. Then Sherlock finally figured out the name for that strange tenseness. He _missed_ John Watson, in the way that normal, boring, _dull_ people missed other normal, boring, dull people. And he did so nearly _constantly._ Mycroft’s basement had suffered violently, and then Sherlock had suffered miserably at the sound of Mycroft’s reprimands in turn.

Then, while waiting for Mycroft’s people to return with information he asked for—a process that they took far too long on in Sherlock’s opinion—he’d slipped down into his Mind-Palace and ran over every thought, every action, he’d ever performed for, because, or about John Watson. When he returned from his mental landscape he no longer felt the urge to destroy Mycroft’s manor. His thoughts snapped to the solitary goal of shortening his stay in the grave as much as possible.

The snow had slowed to a steady, floating drift towards the earth and John had made a fire. Its crackling was pleasant and homey and it burned away the stagnant smell that the flat had acquired in the absence of its inhabitants. When the light started to drain from the sky, John finally declared the flat ‘basically inhabitable’ once more.

Since there was literally no food in the kitchen whatsoever, John decided that they would order Chinese takeout, and when he donned his heavy winter coat with a suppressed lack of enthusiasm, Sherlock finally rose lithely from his occupation of the couch and wordlessly made to accompany John. Neither of them commented on the apparent adoption of the buddy system.

When they returned John consumed chow mein and sweet and sour chicken at what Sherlock considered to be an unreasonable pace. He was unusually skinny though so Sherlock wasn’t that surprised. Sherlock picked at his food but didn’t eat much. His brain was too busy to be slowed by the loss of blood that would be required to digest the food and honestly his hunger was focused on a very different subject than the mediocre Chinese food before him. He thought John noticed and looked disapproving but apparently he decided it was a battle for another day.

When John finally seemed satisfied he regarded Sherlock a moment, to which he raised an eyebrow.

“Sorry,” John said, looking down at his hands, which were twined and resting on his knees, “I’m just thinking about what happens now? I mean you said the evidence is at Scotland Yard but… does everything go back to normal now?”

Sherlock leaned back and pressed his fingers into steeples. His index fingers pressed against his bottom lip.

“Well… as to what happens next, it won’t be very long at all before word of my return reaches Lestrade at the Yard and, the honorable man he is, the first thing he will do is call you, which should happen…” he paused to roll his wrist up, making his watch visible, while basically maintaining his pensive position, “Any time now. At which time he will apologize to you.”

“Apologize for what?” John asked.

“For believing that I was a fraud and that Moriarty wasn’t real,” Sherlock said simply, like dangling bait before a hungry fish.

John didn’t disappoint. He leaned forward onto his knees and a skeptical expression settled on his face.

“To me? Wouldn’t he apologize to you?”

“No,” Sherlock said, clearly. “Well, yes, he will apologize when he sees us again, most likely he’ll stop by tomorrow, but his real guilt is for you, John.”

                Skepticism was still firmly affixed on John’s brow. While he outwardly sighed in disappointment, Sherlock couldn’t ignore the pleasant rush he always got from explaining the ways of the world to John Watson.

                “You see, Lestrade now knows I intended for him to believe I was fake and he also knows I do not care what he believed as long as it achieved the means. When it comes to you however, Lestrade knows he betrayed you when he forsook me. Something you both knew he’d done but chose to never discuss. He will feel the need to make up for it immediately,” Sherlock concluded.

                John just shook his head, light smile on his face. It was just as good as any verbal compliment and Sherlock basked in the familiar warm glow that John’s praise had always brought him.

                Then John’s phone rang and he looked at the caller ID, expecting to see Harry again, but instead his eyebrows rose and he just shook his head at Sherlock once more before he stood to take the call. He flipped his phone open as he walked to stand by the window in the interest of some imagined privacy, not that Sherlock couldn’t clearly hear him from where he sat. Sherlock picked at a wonton as John greeted the caller.

                “Greg?” John answered, as if he heard urgency in Lestrade’s voice. “What is it?”

                Sherlock snorted. Why did John even bother? He had _just_ explained ‘what it was’.

                “I… I know. He showed up and surprised me today,” John said voice a little deprecating.

                Sherlock just shrugged at the accusing look John shot him from the window.

                “No, I’m okay, really… Sherlock is fine. Well, he’s going to have a bit of a bruise…. No, he wasn’t attacked,” John said and paused when Sherlock huffed indignantly from the couch. “Okay, I may have hit him…”

                Sherlock was sure he could here Lestrade laughing on the other end of the call all the way across the room. He scowled violently. There was quiet on John’s end for a while and Sherlock assumed they’d reached the second part of his prediction. After a moment John spoke again.

                “No, Greg, really it’s okay. It’s not your fault… it’s what he wanted,” John said in a softer voice.

                There was another moment of silence.

                “Of course, I think I’m going to have to go get my stuff from Harry’s at some point tomorrow and explain where I’ve been but we would love to see you,” John said, speaking for Sherlock.

                Sherlock didn’t really mind because he was just pleased he was right about everything this time.

                “Yes… of course, we’ll see you tomorrow,” John said his farewell and hung up.

                John turned to look at Sherlock who didn’t say a word.

                “Yes, yes, you are brilliant,” John said, giving in.

                John still chuckled at the smile he received, though.

                The remaining light faded quickly and something hung in the air over the boys of 221B. Something that had been set in motion since Sherlock stepped foot onto Baker Street this morning was going to drop, but not yet. It hadn’t just yet.

John and Sherlock talked for hours. Sherlock spun the stories of his time six feet under the surface of the world. John asked questions and Sherlock did not disappoint. He told stories of hunting, of shadows and daring feats. He told more boring tales of how he and Mycroft uncovered the truths of everything, but somehow his low voice kept John’s unwavering attention. Sherlock left out the majority of the dark times, the times when he’d finally collapse into sleep only to be woken by nightmares of Moriarty, hole blown in the back of his head, dripping blood, teeth sunk into John’s neck, like some obscene, bloodsucking monster… John was always so pale, his blue eyes wide and unseeing, dead… no he didn’t speak to John of those nights nor of the questions he asked of Moriarty’s followers, how he made them answer those questions or what happened to them if their answers were wrong. John didn’t ever need to see that side of Sherlock, the side that left scars on his soul that he could only hope would heal in time.

Finally John began to yawn, and his head began to droop. He looked like his head weighed five times more than it should and he could just barely hold it up any longer.

“You are exhausted,” Sherlock stated so quickly after the final words of a story that John almost didn’t seem to register at first.

Then he shook his head and run his hands over his face.

“Yeah,” he accepted. “Can’t say I slept much last night.”

Or at all, Sherlock deduced.

John stood and stretched before pausing, awkward and unsure. There was tangible reluctance swirling about him. Sherlock realized his own feelings seemed to mirror that sentiment.

“Mycroft had to decontaminate your bedroom along with the kitchen. There wasn’t any bedding that I saw,” John said. “Where will you sleep?”

Sherlock rarely had slept in his bed even before his ‘death’ and when his body finally won over his mind and forced it into the submission of sleep it was usually on the couch or over one of his experiments. So it wouldn’t be a problem now even if he had been planning on sleeping, but Sherlock knew this wasn’t really about that. He could see the anxiety on John’s face and for some reason didn’t really feel like letting John out of his sight for a good long while yet.

“Oh… I hadn’t thought about it.”

_Lies!_

Sherlock thought about everything but it was an ends to a means.

“Well… if you wanted…. I mean… there are still sheets on my bed,” John finished pathetically.

His face was dusted with pink and if he hadn’t been staring determinedly down at the floor Sherlock was sure he could see a visible increase in pupil diameter. Sherlock decided to spare them both and he just stood and waited, watching John pointedly. Finally John glanced up, unintentionally making eye contact but in that second before John looked away a whole conversation passed between them.

Then John stood, turned and began to make his way to his bedroom.

And so close behind he could feel heat rolling off his body was Sherlock Holmes.


	4. Part 4

It was safe to say John was nervous as he climbed the stairs towards his long-unused bedroom. There were many reasons for his unease. First there was the sheer fact that he was going to be sharing his bed with someone for the first time in what seemed like an eternity—and that person was _Sherlock Holmes._ On top of this John was terrified to close his eyes. Somewhere inside he still feared that if he closed his eyes and slipped into oblivion, he would wake up to find this had all been a horribly, cruelly beautiful dream. Then he worried about what would happen to him if this was only a dream… John doubted he could take it. Nightmares he could handle, handle poorly, but he could handle them. This though, was different. This would break John Watson _irreparably._  

                John was so distracted he had somehow managed to change into his pajama bottoms and a tee-shirt all on auto pilot, and when he turned to climb into bed, Sherlock had beat him to it. He wasn’t wearing a shirt, and even though his body was covered from the chest down by John’s comforter, he assumed that Sherlock was probably only wearing his pants as John hadn’t seen him grab his own pajamas. This brought another faint dusting of warmth to John’s cheeks.

Sherlock, however, seemed completely at ease. He lay on his back with his hands behind his head, seemingly studying the ceiling. He didn’t seem like he was getting ready to sleep either. John suddenly wondered if he would just lay there all night to appease John. That elicited two distinct feelings in John. The first was surprise that Sherlock would do that for him and paired with it was surge of pleasure. The second was pure shame. When did he get this pathetic?

John sighed heavily and was about to go to the bed when he remembered he left his phone down on the coffee table. He muttered a curse and made his way towards the living room to grab it. Before he got two steps towards the door a low voice stopped him.

“Where are you going?” Sherlock asked.

For most people there wouldn’t have been anything notable in Sherlock’s voice; John was not most people. The words were a little rushed and undercut with something more than idle curiosity.

“I left my mobile in the living room,” John explained.

“Oh,” Sherlock said and didn’t take his eyes off him.

Perhaps Sherlock hadn’t found a sudden sympathetic streak when he followed John upstairs. Maybe John wasn’t the only one who saw demons in the dark.

“Ah, never mind,” John said, turning away from the door. “There’s nothing anyone would want to say to me tonight that I couldn’t hear tomorrow morning.”

Sherlock didn’t look away from the ceiling this time but he did smile lightly.

John padded back to the bed and pulled down the covers before lowering himself onto the familiar mattress. The one at Harry’s had just never felt right.

“Goodnight, Sherlock,” John said, the way he’d said it so many times before.

Never _quite_ like this of course. It was the same words; the same tone, but never before had it been directed at the other side of the bed. John switched off the lamp on his bedside table and then they were shrouded in darkness.

Somehow it made John all the more aware of the man beside him, painfully so. He’d told himself this was good enough for tonight and really it was; his body just hadn’t been informed of that fact. It had been so long since he’d been so close to anyone let alone someone like… John rolled away from Sherlock and faced the wall. He lay on his side with one arm under his head and pillow. He was so tired but his eyes remained open, as if he could see the steady, near silent breathing of the human being in the bed next to him. Why had he done this to himself again? Oh right, he was terrified Sherlock would disappear. This was better. He could feel the heat from Sherlock’s lithe frame warming his mattress. He was here, alive. John calmed himself in the silence but sleep didn’t come.

“John, I’m sorry,” Sherlock’s voice floated softly through the quiet.

It didn’t surprise John. He knew Sherlock was as wide awake as he was. John’s fingers traced the sheets and he continued to stare into the darkness.

“Sherlock, it’s…” he began to say.

“I hurt you.”

It wasn’t a question, or even an admission, really. It was a fact, undeniable and true. John’s stomach twisted and he searched his mind for the right thing to say, but no perfect solution came to him.

“I… understand why now,” John said in a hushed voice. “It’s… going to be okay.”

Neither of them were even going to pretend that everything was alright currently. There were so many wounds, so many scars. Such things took time to heal, but John was confident that in time everything would indeed be okay. He knew they would.

At his words John heard Sherlock inhale slow and deep, and then release it. It shuddered as it left him. Sherlock’s breath shook. Then there was silence in the room again, and still John stared. Moments passed and John could feel his heartbeat spread across his skin.

                Then there was a rustle of sheets and suddenly long, warm arms slid around John and pulled him backwards. John gasped shallowly as a face buried itself in the space where his neck and shoulder met. Curls brushed his cheek.

                John was crushed into Sherlock’s chest, his arms like steel bars securing him there. His hands were fists in John’s shirt, one against his ribs and the other firmly over his wounded shoulder. John felt Sherlock’s legs all along the back of his own, the man effectively enveloping him into his, almost naked, body. John had never been held like this before.

                Then Sherlock pressed his nose into the side of John’s neck and inhaled sharply. John’s insides were set ablaze and he couldn’t stop himself from leaning back into Sherlock even further and grabbing Sherlock’s arm in a vice grip, holding him in place. John felt Sherlock’s fairly even breathing on his neck. It sped up. Finally he spoke once more.

                “John, I am… truly, _truly_ sorry. I’m sorry…” he whispered to John’s skin, and hidden by the dark, real, agonizing pain finally broke through his carefully controlled tone.

                Tears pricked in John’s eyes as his heart seemed to choke.

                John rolled. He turned in Sherlock’s arms to face the suffering. He reached up to thread his hand into Sherlock’s hair and pulled his forehead down to press against his own, almost too hard. The other arm wound around Sherlock’s waist.

                “Shh…” John murmured, threading his fingers through the silken strands. “Shh, it’s not your fault… it’s not your fault.”

                John’s voice was so rough and he felt Sherlock quivering in his arms. He could feel wetness in his own eyes and knew he was losing it.

                “And… and Sherlock… I’m—I’m sorry, too… I’m so, _so_ sorry,” John knew his voice was rising and falling and breaking but he had to say this. “I’m so _sorry_ for what you had to do… I’m so sorry, Sherlock…”

                His voice broke over Sherlock’s name and then, thank the gods, lips silenced him. Their first kiss had been emotional and raw, but innocent. This kiss was totally different. It was like a circuit had been completed and each reconnection between him seemed to send a charge through John’s veins where it convened and grew in the pit of his stomach. This kiss didn’t hold just the weight of a love discovered, but also the pain, the scars, and the weight of their dirty, messy, imperfect lives.

                John’s arm tightened around Sherlock’s neck, pulling them even closer. Sherlock’s hands were on his face, wiping and brushing away the tears that had slipped out of his eyes. Then he cupped John’s jaw and tilted his head back. A nimble tongue darted over his bottom lip and his mouth parted automatically. He’d really never been able to deny Sherlock anything. Then Sherlock’s tongue slipped into his mouth and John forgot how to breath for a few seconds.

                John wondered where Sherlock learned how to kiss like this, whether it was past experience, theoretical study, or just natural talent, John had no idea. It could have been any one or combination of them, but the longer that clever, clever tongue was in his mouth the less and less John cared about how the hell Sherlock knew how to do it. John was content to let Sherlock have his way for a while but the charge was building.

                Finally John broke for air with a gasp and immediately pushed on Sherlock’s shoulder. John followed him as he rolled so he found himself straddling the man’s narrow hips. John didn’t hesitate to swoop down on Sherlock’s exposed neck. He kissed, nipped, bit and sucked, head light and swirling. Then John had a brilliant, stunning revelation. Sherlock chest was completely bare.

His hands were added to the mix of sensations that he used to assault Sherlock’s body. He trailed his fingers over Sherlock’s smooth chest and stomach. He felt them ripple under his touch and never before had John felt so powerful, to elicit this response from Sherlock. And John couldn’t help but believe in Sherlock’s life and presence when he could feel his pulse drumming against his tongue.

                Suddenly it seemed that Sherlock decided he wanted a turn and John’s lips broke away from the hollow under Sherlock’s ear with a pop as hands gripped his hips and he was pushed sideways and then he was on his back.

                John arched and took a sharp intake of breath when he felt Sherlock’s short fingernails scrap against his abdomen as he hooked his fingers under the hem of John tee-shirt. It was easy for Sherlock to rip the shirt up and over John’s head before tossing it somewhere across the room. John obviously wasn’t fighting it. Sherlock’s hands then ran from his shoulders to his biceps, where they rested as Sherlock leaned down and begin pressing open mouthed kisses to his chest. John’s breathing thinned out and sped up and his neck craned backwards. It was nearly too much.

                Sherlock’s mouth finally paused for a moment, his innate curiosity tangible, and then closed over his left nipple. That tongue danced and then there was a very light pinch of teeth.

                “Ah!” John gasped and bucked.

                All of a sudden the pressure above him shifted and John’s hips were pressed into the mattress as Sherlock sat up.

                “I want to see you,” he rasped, and John’s hips shifted in response again.

                John felt the mattress dip beside him as Sherlock leaned over towards his bedside table. Then with a fairly unpleasant click and flash, light flared into the room. It was a dim light but in contrast with the utter darkness in the shuttered room it was blinding. If he had been any more coherent John would have protested.

                When his eyes finally adjusted, John looked up and sucked in a mouth full of air. Sherlock was sitting above him, hands on John’s ribs so he leaned lightly forward. His hair hung disheveled over his forehead and his cheeks were flushed and pink, as were his lips, nearly bruised. His chest rose and fell fast enough to let John know he was less calm then his stillness made him appear. His graceful, curved neck was marked and John was embarrassed for more than a moment, causing even more blood to rush to his face. The little red marks on Sherlock’s skin were sure to betray him in purple by morning. What was he? A teenager?

                He’d been distracted by his lack of self control for a moment but now he saw Sherlock’s eyes. They were so dark and bright, and they were currently examining every exposed inch of John’s body. He’d never felt to vulnerable and exposed, like an adolescent, naked in front of another’s eyes for the first time. Jesus! He was _not_ a blushing schoolgirl! No matter how those eyes seemed to drink him in, as if Sherlock would only be satisfied once every inch of John’s skin was observed, recorded and filed away somewhere in that massive head of his. John couldn’t even move.

                Sherlock so very slowly trailed his fingers from John’s collar bone, down his chest and swirled around his navel. John bowed his back and his fingers twisted the sheets while his other hand gripped Sherlock’s leg. Distracted and intrigued, Sherlock continued to trace obscure patters and shapes on his skin. It was slowly killing him. Finally, when Sherlock drug his nails from shoulder to abdomen, John shuddered and broke.

                “Sherlock,” he begged.

                The man snapped out of whatever fixation he’d been inhabiting and finally met John’s eyes. He didn’t know what Sherlock saw there but whatever it was made his eyes go two shades darker and his tongue to wet his lips of his own accord.

                They moved at the same time. Sherlock swooped down upon him as John rose up to meet. They met in the middle and it was a flurry of lips and teeth and hands and skin and skin and skin. John sighed in blessed contentment when Sherlock finally dropped down and their bare chests finally pressed together, the heat nearly excruciating, and when Sherlock surprised John by sticking his tongue directly into John’s ear, his hands scrabbled for something to grab onto on Sherlock’s utterly smooth back and he couldn’t help but roll his hips upwards, pressing both of their now painfully hard erections together.

                John thought his brain was short-circuiting. Sherlock groaned and it was one of the most beautiful things John had ever heard.

                “Oh, hell…” John sighed as Sherlock nibbled and sucked at his earlobe and his hands played up and down John’s ribs.

                “Mmmn,” Sherlock murmured in some form of agreement John thought.

                It was all warm touches, clumsy groping and want for closeness. It was practiced but new and flustered as possible—all raw need. Their hips were rubbing together at a consistent pace now and John didn’t know how much longer he’d be able to fake any sort of control at all. He was so gone.

                John ran his hand down over Sherlock’s lower back and then lower. Sherlock almost seemed to growl in response and his hands slid quickly down John’s sides before he hooked his thumbs under the waistband of John’s pajamas. Before John could react, they were pulled off and then Sherlock took him in hand. John’s left hand pulled sharply on the hair at the nape of Sherlock’s neck. Sherlock then squeezed him.

                “Ungh! _Sherlock!_ ” John couldn’t help but gasp.

                Sherlock hesitated for a moment at John’s cry. Then he repeated the motion and pumped John again.

                “Aa—ah!”

                Sherlock liked that. John was almost totally lost to the world when Sherlock began to stroke him with a steady hand. It was a nibble on John’s lips that brought him back from the blind world of bliss. With a shuddering breath John reciprocated, which Sherlock should have seen coming but did not. There was a hot huff of breath released against John’s lips as he yanked Sherlock’s pants down and off, and then wrapped his hand around Sherlock’s cock.

The man stilled suddenly, holding himself suspended above John. It was surprising and fascinating enough that John’s head was cleared enough to take in the occurrence properly. Slowly, testing, John pumped Sherlock once from tip to base. His breath caught as a shuddery breath tickled his face and Sherlock’s hips rolled in sync with his motion. John did it once more and again Sherlock shuddered and rolled. John was reverent. He wondered how long it had been since someone had touched Sherlock in this way. 

For a moment he completely forgot about his own arousal and raptly focused on the wondrous creature at his mercy. He increased the pace of his strokes and began to add a twist whenever he reached his head. Sherlock’s forehead rested against John’s and his breath was huffing out unevenly. John could feel the way his hand clenched the sheet above John’s head where he leaned on his elbow for support. Then Sherlock started moaning and John could barely breathe again, afraid to break the perfection.

                It was only when Sherlock began to lose pace with John’s steady pumping and he began to twitch his hips uncontrollably every few seconds did he break away.

                “I… John…” Sherlock gasped and the stillness snapped.

 A new storm of activity whirled between them. There was an undeterminable amount of time when John wasn’t sure which direction was up or which was down or whether he was on top of Sherlock or it was the other way around. John had never been engaged in something so raw. It was a little clumsy. Sherlock was all angles and lines and John was so lost in need he couldn’t see straight, but somehow it was perfect. Each pound of his heart against his ribs, each pound of Sherlock’s beating back against his chest, as if they were trying to bust through to join together. And each time those hearts pounded it was like a hammer against the last of John’s doubts, the last of his defenses. They were crumbling with every second and this was _real._

Their hips rolled in time and the friction was mind numbing. Sherlock’s breath was coming faster against his shoulder and John knew he was close. Suddenly he sympathized with Sherlock. He had to see, to feel, to _taste_. He rose up on one elbow and cupped the back of Sherlock’s neck and mashed their lips together. Then he reached down and gripped him again. He ran his thumb over the tip where he was already leaking pearly drops and John began to stroke him quickly. He felt Sherlock’s hand close around his own erection but John made sure he kept pace.

Sherlock was bucking into his hand now and sounds John never imagined could come from the consulting detective where being moaned into his mouth. Sherlock’s fingers were digging into John’s shoulder but he didn’t give a damn.

“Mmnng… John…! John, I’m… I’m going to…”

John drank in Sherlock’s words and they were like oil poured on the fire in his gut.

“Yes…” John murmured into his lips. “Yes…”

Sherlock’s hands fisted in the sheets. His back ached up in abandon.

“Ah! Ah! John!”

He shouted. Sherlock Holmes shouted John’s name as he came into his hand, hot mess leaving undeniable evidence proving that he was indeed human. John was unable to tear his eyes away from the beauty of it. Sherlock’s eyes were open but stared unseeing at the ceiling and his lips were wet and parted. John vowed to never forget how Sherlock looked in this moment. He didn’t stop until Sherlock had ridden his orgasm as far as he could take it and then collapsed, panting onto the bed.

John rolled to the side, still watching as Sherlock’s chest heaved. He almost forgot that he was still harder than he had ever been his entire life. Sherlock, however, apparently did not. His head lolled sideways and his eyes locked onto John’s, they were filled with a strange mix and awe and wonder. Had John done that? If he had… well, he wanted to do it over and over again and never stop.

Sherlock turned onto his side and his hand rose up to trace the line of John’s jaw, so slow. It sent a violent shudder through his body and a sharp shock to a very specific part of his anatomy and his hips jerked. While his mind may have been satisfied, his body obviously still had a goal. Sherlock didn’t keep him waiting. Without taking his eyes off John’s face, Sherlock’s hand trailed down John’s neck, then his chest, over his abdomen and then those wondrously long fingers curled firmly around his length. He stroked him once, twice, picking up a rhythm. John was hot but Sherlock’s skin was hotter. It was burning him.

John was scrabbling for purchase on the loose sheets. He was close, oh-so close. His eyes had been screwed tightly shut but he forced them open to meet Sherlock’s eyes and that’s what undid him completely. Sherlock’s eyes were the deepest blue John had ever seen them, calm and secure, deep and sated, awed and inspired. Too much. John’s eyes slammed shut and he threw his head back.

“SHERLOCK!” he shouted.

He came hard over Sherlock’s hand and his own stomach. The waves shook him from the tip of his head to the tips of his toes, pleasure burning through his veins so powerfully he wondered if it wouldn’t destroy him. Sherlock’s hand stayed around him as the aftershocks shook him. Finally, John shivered and every muscle in his body relaxed.

The source of heat beside him disappeared and John tried to rebel against his body to see where it went but he was just so tired. When was the last time he slept? The light in the room vanished and the body soon returned, though. He felt someone wipe his stomach and hand clean and it made him want to giggle, if he could have move at all. Then two long arms and a leg slipped around him and John found just enough energy to slide his hand up to caress the head that was using the space between his neck and shoulder as a pillow. His other arm was slung around a trim waist and John sighed contentedly.

“John?” a voice barely whispered.

“Mmn?” John replied eloquently.

“…Thank you…”

There was much said in the two word but for once the genius decided to let his heart speak instead of his mouth. John tipped his head down so he could nuzzle his face into the soft hair on Sherlock’s head.

“You came back…” John murmured, voice thick as honey. “You came back to me…”

John thought that Sherlock may have said something back but John never heard, and as he slipped into oblivion, one last thought floated through his conscious.

_I love you._

 

                When John awoke up he was cold. He thought that’s what must have woken him. John was on his side, curled against the lack of warmth. Then he inhaled deeply, familiar smell of 221B Baker Street filling his nose.

Several thoughts hit John like a train at once. First was a question. Why he wasn’t at Harry’s? Then, like a slideshow sped up a hundred times over, images from last night tumbled over him. And then the realization that he was alone in his bed washed over him sickly.

Oh god… oh, heavens no. No, _no!_

                _“Sherlock!”_ John gasped as he shot up into a sitting position.

                The comforter slipped down his body and pooled around his waist. He was… naked.

                “Still alive…” a voice floated from the space near the now un-shuttered window.

                John’s head snapped around and what he saw was a spectacle indeed.

                Sherlock Holmes leaned against the window frame like a princess at the top of a tower, gazing out at the world below. He was wrapped in a sheet and nothing else if history proved the present. He was wrapped in _John’s_ sheet. Wait, how had he managed to get that without waking John?

                John just watched him for a moment and Sherlock looked over to meet his gaze. There were many things that John could—should—have been thinking about. He could have been worried about what the future held for them. He could be worried about how the public would take Sherlock’s resurrection when the press found out. He could have been thinking about how Harry was going to scream at him later for ignoring her yesterday. He could have been worried about trying to convince Sherlock to put on a scarf before anyone came to visit them, as John’s love bites were _clearly_ visible on his pale neck. John could have been worried about likelihood that Sherlock would refuse to put on _anything_ else today now that he had gotten a hold of John’s sheet. He could be excited about that fact, but none of those things crossed John’s mind.

                The only thing John registered was how absolutely ridiculous—beautiful, but still ridiculous— _Sherlock Holmes_ looked wrapped in a bed sheet, hair disheveled with hickeys that would put a teenager after their school dance to shame, and yet there he was, still trying to look dramatic and mysterious in front of the snow covered buildings of London. It was hilarious.

                John began to laugh. Sherlock gave him a questioning look, like he thought John might be crazy and John just laughed harder.

                He fell back against the pillows and kept laughing.

                “John, what is it?” Sherlock asked impatiently.

                Giggles bubbled from the mouth of the army doctor and the bewildered look on Sherlock’s face wasn’t helping.

                “John?”

                No answer.

                “John, what’s so funny?” Sherlock asked obviously frustrated and was just making it worse.

                He approached the bed, that sheet flowing behind him like the train on wedding dress, and John lost it all over again. His face hurt from smiling more than he had in months and his body was sore from laughing and other activities in which he’d participated in the last twelve hours.

                Sherlock stood over the bed, glaring at John.

                “John, what is so funny?” he said, seriously, _hating_ being out of the loop in absolutely anything.

                John was finally able to catch his breath and he pushed himself upwards.

                “Oh, nothing, Sherlock,” he said, smiling. “It’s nothing. You’re brilliant.”

                It was funny to watch as Sherlock seemed unable to decide if he was angry at being denied or pleased by the flattery. Flattery won out when John reached up to pull him down by his nape to firmly press their lips together.

                When they broke apart Sherlock grinned as well. John quickly slid out of bed and into his pajama bottoms, which had fallen on the floor. He picked up Sherlock’s pants as well.

                “How about some breakfast?” John asked.

                “I’d love some,” Sherlock said.

                John then gave him the most genuine smile that a man could give another. His heart was flooded and content and Sherlock smiled, too.

                John chuckled and then threw Sherlock’s pants at him. He caught them without much effort.

                “Put your pants on. We’re going to have company.”

                John padded towards the door and laughed, because if Sherlock Holmes wouldn’t put on pants for the Queen then John had no idea what made him think he would do so for anyone else. So John wasn’t really surprised when Sherlock flapped after him in the sheet like some preposterous white and blue bat, demanding tea.

 

With a sigh John realized he was never getting those sheets back as he watched the man he loved wrapped in them on the couch with a mug of steaming tea in one hand and his laptop balanced on his knees, typing away with the other hand.

                “John, quit watching me from across the room and come sit down,” Sherlock said without looking away from his screen.

                John just shook his head and complied as always. What was a sheet, though, when Sherlock already stole his whole being, his heart, his soul, _everything,_ a long time ago? And besides, Sherlock had given him something in return that more than compensated.

Sherlock had given John his own life, something that John had thought he lost—something John would protect until heart ceased to beat.


End file.
